Under the ribcage

I find myself wondering if it all comes down to momentum.

It all seemed like a fantastic idea while we were still in motion. From the moment we stepped on the aeroplane and saw Feliz Navidad in big affable letters on the seat headrests, I had a good feeling about our plans. It wasn’t dented by the cheesy festive music playing over the PA system, songs I’d never heard before which I presumed were from a compilation called something like It’s A Swingin’ Christmas. (“What is Christmas?” gurgled a poor man’s Bob Dylan. “Christmas is for sharing.” came the response from the barely pubescent-sounding backing vocalists.) Even though the flight was utterly packed, even though for most of the duration two angry babies traded screams back and forth across the crowded cabin like duelling smoke alarms, nothing killed the mood.

But then we came to a rest at Madrid’s Barajas airport, with a two hour hiatus before our connecting flight, and for the first time we started to wonder if we had made a mistake.

The terminal at Barajas is a huge, long building full of shops and bars and people. I’d been there once before and it should be - normally is - a bustling, busy place. But tonight, it is almost completely devoid of signs of life. We walk anxiously past shop front after shop front, all shuttered up, no light leaking out. The cafes and restaurants are pretty much without exception closed, and it doesn’t take long to realise that the people sitting at the tables are there because there is nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do. Wasting time, just like us.

If the airport in the capital is like this, I think, what will Granada be like? I suddenly have an unsettling vision of Kelly and I wandering fruitlessly round a ghost town where the inhabitants have collectively switched off the lights and gone elsewhere.

We find the only places open. Quickly ruling out “Bit Burger”, largely on the basis that I have no intention of eating a burger made of “bits”, we settle for a grotty looking cafeteria. Nearly all the food is gone, and despite the posters on the walls advertising “delicious snacking” we sit at an unappetising looking table to eat an unappetising looking sandwich. The other diners look exhausted and frayed, washed out until they are almost black and white. We are trying to stay chipper but I know we must seem exactly the same to them. Our brave faces barely convince each other, let alone anybody else.

Actually, the sandwich isn’t bad. This is Spain after all - the jamon is salty and flavourful, the cheese tangy and textured. If this was Heathrow, or Gatwick, the ham would look and taste like pink plastic. The cheese would be yellow plastic. The bread, in all likelihood, would be beige plastic. This on the other hand tastes delicious - so nice, in fact, that I can almost forget that the restaurant is called ARS.

Almost, but not quite: the fact remains that I am eating a ham and cheese sandwich slap bang in the middle of an ARS.

We sit at our departure gate, hot and bothered at this arbitrary point in our journey. The ceiling at Barajas is an incredible edifice, undulating waves with regular beams which, throughout the length of the massive hall, gradually change colour many times. Tiny in this vast structure, we look like we’re sitting in the technicolor ribcage of a gigantic whale. Other travellers wander past. Those leaving the airport here look happy and purposeful, pleased to be home for the holidays. The rest look as lost as we are.

And then we are on the move again.

The plane to Granada is also playing the cheesy music, but there are far fewer people on it. A few businessmen on the Christmas equivalent of the ojo rojo, some tourists like us. The plane touches down at Federico Garcia Lorca airport, and we get that rare pleasure in life: no shuttle bus to the terminal for us, no tunnel pulled up alongside the exit. Instead we get to walk down the steps and across the runway to the terminal building. Flying has lost nearly all the glamour it once had as it has become commonplace, but this simple act feels like a throwback to the 60s. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to feeling like a head of state, or a Beatle.

Let’s forget for a moment that the obnoxious, clinically obese American tourist in the seat next to me is sharing the same experience.

The runway glistens with drizzle as we make for the terminal. By the time the coach drops us off in the centre of Granada, the heavens have opened. It is indeed like a ghost town - no tourists, no dog walkers, no locals. The clatter of our suitcases on the marbled plazas is the only noise competing with the relentless hammering sound of the rain.

We both remember how to get to the hotel - we stayed there once before in warmer, sunnier times. The lights are warm and welcoming, so is the receptionist, and the room is every bit as gorgeous as I remember. We haul our cases inside and exhale deeply. This is it. No more exertion, no more rushing anywhere, no more motion. We’re completely at rest, and suddenly I cannot see how this decision could be anything but the right one.

I head to the window and open the shutters. From the balcony, I can see the Alhambra up on the hill. The rain is drowned out by the soothing rushing of the River Darro flowing loudly right outside our window. Looking down to my right I can see the shining cobbles of the street, my favourite street in Granada, heading back to the city. Solitary travellers wander up and past on their way somewhere. Their journeys aren’t over yet, but mine is.

And as if by magic, too perfectly to be contrived or artificial, the time on the clock flips over. 00:00. I turn back to Kelly, who is pouring the first cup of tea we have had in a very long time, and say the only thing that seems appropriate.

“Merry Christmas.”